


And It Just Got Worse...

by VelvetMace



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Humiliation, Imprisonment, Kidnapping, Torture, Urine, non-sexual nudity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-04
Updated: 2011-12-04
Packaged: 2017-10-26 21:51:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,654
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/288294
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VelvetMace/pseuds/VelvetMace
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sally and Sherlock wake to find themselves locked together, naked, in a tiny stinking closet, at the mercy of some very bad people.  If either is to survive, they have to learn to put aside their differences and trust each other.  Given their history, this is not an easy thing to do.</p>
            </blockquote>





	And It Just Got Worse...

**Author's Note:**

> This is quite grim and dark and graphic. Click with care.
> 
> This was written for [this prompt the bbcsherlock_fic kinkmeme.](http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/2727.html?thread=6395815#t6395815)

At first the only thing that Sally could think about is how badly she wanted to throw up. The nausea rose like a wave, overwhelming all her other senses, until at last she had no choice but to spew out whatever poison sat in her stomach. With each retch her skull seems to explode.

Then, after she'd dry heaved away the worst of the sickness, and been still enough for the headache to settle back to tolerable, she finally began to notice other things. She lay naked and curled in a cramped space, her head bent against one wall, feet flat against another, her knees a third. She was on the floor, which felt cold and hard and slightly gritty under her hip and shoulder. She wondered if she'd gone blind, because it was pitch black -- but no, there was the tiniest thread of light by her feet, from the gap left by a very well fitting door.

There was someone else in here with her.

She could feel that person as a warmth near, but not quite touching her bottom. Not moving. Now that she was listening, she could hear breathing, slow, steady, from far above her. Standing, she thought. Whoever it is in here with her was standing. She shifted her leg tentatively and her toes touched the bare boney flesh of an ankle. She felt sparse but wirey hair. Male.

It could be her captor with some fetish for watching naked women vomit in the dark. Night goggles perhaps.

The first emotion she felt was anger. She decided that she couldn't afford to wait. The other knew she was awake. He'd already gone through the effort of kidnapping her. Who knew how long he'd simply watch her. She drew her leg back and tensed, readying to knock his legs out from under him in one swift, violent kick.

"Don't." The word is soft, the voice a low, distinctive, almost musical baritone.

Sally's blood froze. _Freak._ Sherlock bloody Holmes. She knew he'd do something like this, knew it, knew it, knew it!

"No, I'm not your captor. I'm a prisoner like yourself."

"So you say," she said back. Her voice was rough and sore. Gravelly from the bile burning into her vocal cords. Her mouth was still filled with the foul taste of vomit, and she spat, as delicately as could so as not to shake her head.

"If you kick me you will simply make your headache worse and perhaps alert our true captors that we are awake."

Sally swallowed. "How do you know?" She regretted the question instantly.

"I may be blind, but I'm not deaf and my nose works perfectly. You were rendered unconscious with a Ketomine/Xylazine combination. In addition when you were dropped rather callously in this closet, your head hit the cement. From the degree of swelling at the back of your skull, I suspect a mild concussion, but no fracture. And before you ask, yes, I took the liberty of examining you while you were unconscious in the hopes of finding clues of the identity of our captors and the purposes of this kidnapping."

Sally's shuddered. "Of course, you'd molest my unconscious body. Bet you've been looking forward to the opportunity."

"There was nothing sexual about it. If I'm to get us out of this situation, I need to gather what information I can. You might have had distinctive particulates, oils, fibers, any number of things that might have been useful."

Suddenly, all she could think of was Sherlock's hands running all over her naked body. Examining her breasts, penetrating her with the same dispassion that he used to examine eyeballs and cat feces. Nausea bloomed up and she was again fully occupied with throwing up, burping out air and mucus in equal amounts. When it finished she struggled not to cry, because this was hell, but she damn well wasn't going to let Sherlock know how awful the situation was.

"I hate you," she breathed.

"I know," said Sherlock. "I'm not that fond of you, either."

 

* * *

When Sally sat up, Sherlock sat down. The closet was narrow enough that their legs touched. Her smooth calves against his rougher, unshaven ones. In their maneuvering she'd brushed involuntarily up against other parts of him, enough to know he was as naked as she was. She found this bothersome, mostly because it really did rule him out as her captor. She simply couldn't imagine Sherlock getting voluntarily naked ever. He probably showered in a swimsuit.

At last she said. "Did you?"

"Find a clue? Many. But they don't add up to anything yet. I'm still collecting data."

"Have you tried the door?" She was still too woozy to stand but Sherlock seemed in better shape. Perhaps they hadn't knocked his noggin against the floor the way they had hers.

Sherlock groaned. "Do you think still I'd be in here with you if there was a way out?"

"You'd run off and leave me here to rot? Not surprised."

"I'd scout the area, neutralize any antagonists I could find, and alert the police to rescue you. For a woman your height and fitness, you are extremely heavy. It would have slowed me down considerably if I were to drag about your unconscious body. And what use would you have been to me, other than potentially as a human shield. Of course, I would have left you here."

"It's muscle, not fat." Figures that Sherlock would know her weight. "I've nothing to be shamed of."

"And yet oddly you are ashamed, simply because I alluded to the fact that you are over ten and a half stone."

"You got that from groping me?"

"I got that from seeing you. Just before we were captured."

Sally realized that she didn't remember seeing Sherlock. In fact she had only vague memories of anything after breakfast. "Were we working on a case?" she asked.

She could almost feel him looking at her, though it was pointless in this dark. "Definite concussion." It was a weirdly tender comment. "There was a body found in an abandoned flat in Haringey. Not killed on site, simply dumped. I noticed a small scrape on the rear door jam and headed out the back to examine the overgrown garden for footprints, which naturally I found. They lead into the neighbor's garden. You followed to harangue me about trampling evidence and trespassing. I looked over in time to see the door to a storage shed crack open, then I was taken down by a dart. I presume you were taken down soon afterwards. We were both transported via the van that was hidden under a tarp behind the maple tree on the end lot."

"So you are saying I was taken because I followed you on one of your mad capers?"

"Yes. Usually it's John who ends up in your unpleasant position."

"Bloody hell," she murmured. _Usually_. Of course, kidnapping was simply a commonplace nuisance to Sherlock Holmes. Like getting a cold or needing a plumber.

A pause.

"So why are we naked?"

"I presume to make us both uncomfortable. I also presume we are both being watched using infrared cameras."

She covered her breasts with her arms.

"Our captors are giving us time to assess our situation and become properly fearful. I'm afraid our respite is nearly at an end."

Sally's stomach tensed. "What are they going to do with us?"

"Something very unpleasant."

 

* * *

When the enemy came, it was sudden and violent. A blindingly bright light came on the moment the heavy door opened, and then it was more like shadows and shapes. Sally felt herself being lifted and grabbed by both arms, then dragged, her elbows and shoulders crying out in agony while she vomited over and over again. Her headache bloomed to the point where all other pain seemed to subside. She barely even noticed when they dumped her again, still on the icy cold tile, in the corner of an unheated room.

When she opened her eyes and focused she saw Sherlock, naked and pale, shivering slightly, in a metal chair. Whoa, that was way too much of him. She averted her eyes, then chastised herself for her prudery. As a police officer that she'd seen worse. Assess the situation, she told herself. Show that Sherlock Holmes isn't the only investigator out there.

Small room, ten by fifteen feet, no furniture save for the chair Sherlock was in. The single window was barred, and outside was dark, but the sash had been pulled up to let the cold air in.

She let herself look at Sherlock again. Damn, he was skinny: knobby shouldered, ribs that showed, belly that caved, little rolls where it bent. No six pack there. Groin. Ugh. Limp at least. He wasn't getting off on the situation. Sally was almost surprised at that. His wrists were behind him, presumably tied. His ankles were wound about with chain and fixed to the legs of the chair. She could see how deep the metal bit into the flesh. Other than that he didn't appear too beaten up.

His breath plumed out of his nostrils, a visible fog. His head had fallen forward, as if he were too tired to lift it, but his queer, alien eyes were flitting around the room, taking everything in. He glanced at her for a fraction of a second, then turned his attention back on the only other person in the room.

Only one captor remained, the others must have left while she was swooning. This person wore a jacket, gloves and a ski mask, all black, heavy, solid. From the size, he was male. From the bearing and the ease with which he held the pistol in his hand, military.

"Go ahead and ask," Sherlock said, breaking the silence. Sally could hear the condescension and winced. "I'll tell you anything you want to know. Anything at all."

"What makes you think that I'm here to interrogate you?" Their captor had an American accent. He holstered his gun and rubbed his hands together. Very villainy, Sally thought. If the situation was less dire, it would even be funny.

Sherlock's lips tweaked into a smug smile. "Blackwater or KBR?"

The jacketed man jerked back. "The hell."

"Excuse me, I meant Xe Systems. Trying to improve your image after all the negative press. I don't typically keep track of politics so you'll have to forgive the slip."

The man punched Sherlock in the mouth. Hard. Sherlock blinked, then turned his head to the side and spit blood over his shoulder. Oh did he deserve that. Showing off when held captive. Of all the idiotic things to do.

 _Shut up, you egotistical fool,_ she thought at him. _Take this seriously!_

"So is it really me you want?" Sherlock asked, his eyes flitting to her, then away. "Or is it my brother. You see, I'd think Mycroft would be a more obvious target for a paramilitary organization."

He was hit again. This time his eye got it. Sally winced. That was definitely a shiner. "So it is me," Sherlock went on, as if there hadn't been an interruption. "And therefore the reason for the kidnapping is not political but personal. Ah, the reason for not interrogating me. This is a vendetta. Someone _paid_ you to kidnap me. Someone very wealthy to afford your organization -- or well connected perhaps. Someone who knows about Lt. Donovan and my antagonistic relationship with her, or why else involve her. I must have really pissed someone off. Did I put a relative in jail? Send a lover to the executioner? Or did I merely cost him a lot of money?"

"This is not an interrogation," repeated their captor.

"Then why are you here?" asked Sherlock.

"To hurt you."

And with that he began wailing on Sherlock. A fist to stomach, to the groin, multiple to the chest. Sally watched with horror as his pale skin darkened. Then something in her that had been frozen with shock clicked back into place.

Without thinking she was on her feet, dashing the couple of steps to Sherlock's abuser. Her first punch landed square to his kidney, causing him to cry out and bend sideways. She tried to bring a knee to his groin, but dizziness and cold made her balance off and she succeeded only in connecting to his thigh.

His fist caught her chin and all she saw was white. She didn't even feel the ground. The next kick seemed to come from far, far away.

"Stop!" she heard Sherlock yelling. "Leave her alone! Beat me!"

Narcissist, she thought dimly, then went unconscious.

 

* * *

 

When she woke up they were back in the closet. The light was on. Painfully bright. She could barely part her lids without the light turning into an ice pick to the brain. But she could see at least.

Sherlock was crammed in next to her, his wrists on his knees. One eye was swollen shut, the other was idly on her. And of course, they were still both naked. Not even the darkness to give them some shred of modesty.

Sherlock didn't have to grope her anymore, he could simply size up every ounce of fat with that one eye. Judge every flabby bit. The vomit in her hair. Smudged make up. Worse, probably see her sex life in detail, her shameful habits, how much telly she watched. It was like having a mind reader who somehow didn't understand how words _affected_ people. That they had consequences. Hell, Sherlock could have gotten her _fired_ with his indiscreet comments about her affair with Andy. Thankfully Lestrade turned a blind eye on these revelations.

At least he wasn't looking like much of a catch right now, either, what with the bruises. And the flab. Who would have thought a man so skinny could have flab? What did he eat? Crisps, two a day, one at breakfast, one at night? No, he probably lived off of coke, and not the kind that came in a bottle. Heroin, possibly, though, disappointingly there were no track marks down either arm. She'd been privately convinced he was shooting up.

"At least there is that," murmured Sherlock.

"What?"

"You've discovered that I'm not the drug fiend you've been imagining all these years. If you care to look up my nose you'll see I haven't been snorting either."

"It's on your record. You've been _caught_ with drugs. You've been through rehab."

"In the past. And never more than recreationally. There really is no reason to continue to raid my place."

Sally looked away, or tried to. There really was no away in this closet. "Well, the raids aren't really for drugs anyway," she admitted. "Lestrade just uses them when he suspects you've made off with evidence. Your ASBO makes a convenient excuse."

Sherlock smiled. "I know. But I didn't know that you knew."

"I'm not as stupid as you think," she said.

"Well, you certainly aren't much brighter. Why did you attack him? He was armed! He could have shot you, Sally."

Usually Sally hated it when Sherlock used her first name, but now she felt simply odd about it. Sherlock's voice was condescending as ever, but did she detect a note of worry? It almost sounded like he cared for a second. She must be concussed if she actually thought that Sherlock had a feeling for someone other than himself. Alien monster.

"I'm a police officer," she said, after a moment. "You were being beaten. It was my duty to protect you. I haven't a clue why they didn't bother to tie me up."

Sherlock laughed, a low, almost humorless rumble. "They aren't that bright, either. Figured you were too out of it to do more than be a witness to my humiliation. I was supposed to be ashamed of being weak before the woman who regularly cuts out my soul with her words."

"I do what? Did you say 'cut out your soul'?"

"Freak," said Sherlock. "Psychopath. Monster. Alien. Asshole, wanker, idiot, retard, pedophile – not sure where that notion got in your head – fiend. You've accused me of masturbating at crime scenes. Threatened me with an ASBO for standing too close to you. Attempted to alienate my flatmate from me. Do I need to go on? You were there for this."

"You listened?"

"How could I not?"

Sally felt suddenly shamed, and that brought anger. "Well you deserved all of it. Telling people what sex acts I've done on whom – knowing full well what trouble it would cause me."

"You shouldn't be sleeping Anderson," said Sherlock. "He's married and well beneath your dignity."

"My dignity! You think I have dignity?"

"No. But I think you could." His face looked strangely tender again. And damn if her breath didn't catch. Sherlock Holmes actually cared a little about her. Insanity. "Anderson is utterly incompetent, both at his job and conducting his personal life. He can never be anything but. But your incompetence is self-imposed. You dumb yourself down so as to not show him up. You always behave so much smarter when he isn't around. I could never fathom why you do that."

"I love him."

"He doesn't love you."

Sally's heart closed back down like an iron fist. "See. That is why I call you a freak."

Sherlock sighed. "It's truth. You waste your energy on pursuing a man who uses you. Callously. Stupidly. Blundering through his relationships with the same slack-jawed, short sightedness as he does his jobs. He's rubbish."

"He's charming," said Sally. "He makes me feel wonderful when we are together. Now that's an area where you are rubbish."

"I'm well aware of my social inadequacies."

"You must be bloody fantastic in bed," she muttered. She wished in that instant she could call the words back. Of course, she couldn't. But then it was almost worth the embarrassment for the look on Sherlock's face.

Stunned. Utterly flummoxed. "Where would you ever get that notion?"

"It's the only reason why I can think Watson would continue to follow you. You are simply awful company otherwise."

"John and I are not sleeping together," said Sherlock. "He seems to enjoy me for my personality and intellect. I'm as surprised as you are."

"Well his blog makes it sound like he's in love with you – or at least crushing. I mean the man does your laundry! No straight man does another man's laundry. Ever."

"Hmmm," said Sherlock.

Sally sighed. They fell to silence for a while, but then another need grew ever more assertive. "Speaking of humiliating, I need a loo."

"Pick a corner," said Sherlock blandly, then looked at the tight confines. "Or don't, we'll both be sitting in it anyway. Just let go. I don't mind."

"Christ," said Sally. Her breath caught again. "I hate this, Sherlock. I bloody hate being kidnapped. I hate being beaten. I hate throwing up. I hate wetting myself." She shook. "How can you just sit there, naked right next to me and not feel embarrassed? I can see your cock, you know. It's all just out there. How can you just shut all this out like you do?"

"It wouldn't help if I got emotional about it."

"How can you not be? Do you … even _have_ … emotions?" Sally's voice was ragged now. Oh, icing on the cake, she was crying. Crying in front of Sherlock bloody Holmes.

Sherlock put an arm around her and she buried her face in the warmth of his boney chest. Then she took it further, grabbing him roughly in an embrace, clinging to him tightly even though she knew he was bruised and tender. Even though she was bruised and her head ached and she needed, goddamn it, to pee. She buried her face in the not unpleasant smell of his skin. Like musk. His hand brush her hair. Her dirty, disgusting hair. Calmly. Soothingly.

Then she let go and was wet, and he didn't even flinch.

 

* * *

 

They slept as best they could, spooned together, not so much for emotional support as there was no room lie any other way. Sherlock was warm against her back. Her piss was cold everywhere else. The dreams that came were unpleasant – being shipwrecked at sea, bobbing in the waves as a storm thundered around her. Knowing that soon she'd tire and drown.

They woke when the men came for them again. This time she could see there were four of them, all dressed identically. Sherlock was right, they were probably Blackwater. Xe. Whatever name they used these days. The question was "why?" Why beat up Sherlock, other than the fact that he was a wanker who could get under anyone's skin? More importantly, why kidnap her?

Was she really supposed to be there to further torment Sherlock? Did they _know_ Sherlock, because it sure seemed like her presence wasn't having any affect. And was she really so unimportant in their minds that the only reason for her existence was to be a thorn in Sherlock's side? God that stuck in her craw.

They were both dragged, her in front, down a hall. It looked institutional, like a prison or maybe a hospital. Not a new one. An old one, from out of the last century. The wiring was exposed in places and there was mysterious piping. Gas lamps? Very old building. Perhaps on the historic registry.

If there were just some way to get this information to someone who could do something about it! But knowing where they were meant nothing if they couldn't get out and no one else knew.

They were pulled into a shower room and shoved under an unforgiving icy spray. Sally stood her arms crossed over her chest, hiding her breasts from the invasive eyes as much as trying to keep off the cold. Sherlock made no pretense of modesty simply standing under the stream and letting it douse him. All the while watching. Watching.

For once it felt good to see him do that. If anyone could see a way out of this, Sherlock could.

"You must be gay," said one of their captors. "Pretty girl next to you and you are as limp as a noodle."

Sherlock stared at him. "You have genital herpes. I can smell the Zovirax."

And Sally couldn't help but laugh, even though the next moment both of them were knocked on their arses for their cheek.

"Get up," said another, grabbing her arm. "Stand up!"

She stood. Her headache was back again and it was hard to concentrate. They walked down the hall the way they'd come. Sherlock ahead of her this time. Sally spent the moments cataloging what she could figure of her surroundings. There were bars on the windows. Heavy, modern bars, not the cheap burglar ones. Out the grimy window she saw nothing but grass and hills. They weren't in London. Christ. They could be anywhere.

They passed through a galley, the stoves derelict and dusty, counters unwiped for what looked like years. Sally's stomach rumbled. At least she had been able to drink her fill from the shower. Although the water had been rusty, it had tasted wonderful. She suspected that she wasn't going to get any further nourishment out of these people.

A large metal door stood open at the end of the galley and she could feel the cold air coming off of it. The freezer. Bloody hell.

They both hesitated out of self-preservation, but were pushed roughly into the empty interior. The door shut behind them with a clang, locking them in. The water on her skin seemed to freeze at once and she shuddered and went down to her knees. The floor hurt, so she crouched, folded up as closely as she could.

A moment later Sherlock was next to her, coaxing her to stand, then holding her, chest to chest. His heat felt marvelous, but it wasn't enough to stave off the cold. She felt him shivering and she tightened her arms around his middle and held him.

God, if anyone saw them….

It was nice that Sherlock had taken the highroad, because she was pretty sure she couldn't have. She had too much pride. But since he made the first move, she could accept it, like the hug the night before. This was a practical thing after all. She was glad that Sherlock was gay or asexual or something, because it saved them both that bit of awkwardness. She could hold him like the brother she didn't have and just let it be that: two people sharing heat and no more.

The cold was getting worse. It hurt. Oh, it hurt so much. Once she'd been caught in the countryside with naught but a light jumper while it rained and rained and rained just a hair above freezing. And when she'd at last made it back to the cabin, her face had been numb and she couldn't even hold a mug of tea with her hands. That had been a warm day in the tropics compared to this.

This was like knives stabbing into her bones. She could feel the metacarpals, cracking apart turning into shards of glass that pierced her flesh. Her skin was past numb. It felt heavy, like it would slough off. Her mind was numb. She was falling apart.

On and on. Hours.

Sherlock was trying to hold her up, she knew, but she just couldn't stand anymore. Slid down his body, not minding when her cheek briefly pressed against the hairy softness of his groin, and then it was his knees and finally his feet.

"You have to get up," he was saying.

But she couldn't. She didn't see the need to do anything but lay on the ground. It wasn't even that cold anymore. She was all relaxed except her heart was thudding so very hard. She was going to pass out soon.

And then Sherlock was on the floor with her, just like he'd been the night before. Spooning around her fetal form like a seed pod, protecting her with his long limbs. Boney. Poor sod, no fat. Andy would be so jealous.

 

* * *

 

She woke in the closet again, her skin on fire. Itchy. Goddamn so itchy. Sherlock was next to her, helping her sit up. He had reddish patches on his face and ears, his hands and feet looked scalded. Sally looked down and noticed hers were even worse. Frostbite.

"I think you'll keep your toes. Your nose might get a blister. I can help you find a competent dermatologist when we get out of this."

"Are we getting out of this?" she asked. "Or are they going to torture us until we die. No one knows where we are. We don't know where we are."

"Mycroft will find us. John will contact him if I don't show up in three days."

Sally groaned. "Three days? Is that how long you can go missing before someone cares?" She let out a bitter laugh. "At least I have it better than that. Lestrade would know something was up the moment I disappeared."

"Would he really?" Sherlock seemed to brighten.

"Of course. Some of us are dependable. I don't disappear from crime scenes, not like you do. I answer my mobile."

"In that case Mycroft is already on the case. With both of us gone at the same time, it wouldn't be that big a leap."

"Well, good for us. What can Mycroft do? Besides bully police around and look threatening."

Sherlock stared at her for a long time and Sally got the feeling she'd said something quite dumb. Strangely, he didn't call her on it. He let it pass.

"We've got time," said Sherlock, reassuringly. "These thugs have been paid to hurt us, not kill. If being sloppy got them paid, we'd both be dead already. I expect them to let us rest a bit before going on to the next torture."

Sally shuddered at the word torture. How the hell could Sherlock say it so calmly.

"I need your help, Sally."

She sat up. The words had been soft, pressed practically into her ear. Sherlock looked around and she understood. They were bugged. Watched. Of course they were. Sherlock pulled her over so that they were snuggled together like lovers.

"This will only work once, and I fully expect we will both be punished quite severely for it. But I need you to do something for me."

"What's that?" she murmured into his chest. Anything to get them out of here. Anything at all.

"I need you to die."

She tensed. "Die?"

"Not for real. I'll feed you the symptoms, you just need to play along. You have a concussion that hasn't been treated and have been put through stress. It is far more plausible that you would succumb to your injuries than I should suddenly be beset by something."

"I'll do it," she said quietly.

"I warn you, it will hurt. To be convincing, I can't be tentative."

"If you have to strangle me or beat me or whatever it is you think you have to do – just do it. I'm tough."

"I know you are," breathed Sherlock.

Those were the nicest words he'd ever said to her.

 

* * *

 

Mouth to mouth was nothing like kissing, Sally discovered. It was much more like being treated as some sort of inflatable. She was doing her damnedest not to do anything but lie limp while Sherlock shoved her head back, pinched her nostrils shut and huffed huge lungfulls down her throat.

She filled like an effing balloon.

Sherlock's breath was warm and moist and had an odd flavor to it. If she'd been Sherlock she might have been able to categorize it. She surely got to taste enough of it. But as it was it just remained an oddity, like everything else about him. Something indefinable and not quite right.

He let go of her face and she did her best to lie slack. Her mouth gaped, but she willed herself not to breathe. Sherlock's laced hands found that already bruised spot on her chest and pressed down in sharp, uncompromising shoves. One, two, three, please stop already, five, six, seven, oh god cracking! Ten, twelve, thirteen. It was everything she could do not to grunt with pain as her certainly bruised, perhaps broken ribs were mercilessly compressed. Fourteen, fifteen, release.

She did it. Not a breath, not a sound, not a twitch. This was the performance of her life, and she was playing a corpse.

The door burst open. "Move aside!" someone said, and Sherlock's weight was off of her. She felt rough, calloused fingers against the side of her throat and knew the jig was up.

Without hesitating, she opened her eyes and slammed her fist into the man's chest, right over his heart. The man's eyes widened under the mask, then he toppled without a word. She struggled out from beneath him in time to see Sherlock dashing out the door. A second captor slid slowly down the wall outside. Whatever Sherlock had done to him, she couldn't tell.

Painfully, Sally found her feet and began running after him. Sherlock was fast when he wanted to be. And quiet, too. His bare feet making little noise against the tiles. She almost lost him at a T intersection, but then instinct made her turn left. She rounded a second corner and was just in time to see Sherlock disappear into a room.

Sally followed. Was he trying to get out? Because she was pretty sure this wasn't the way to the stairs. It looked like a dead end. "Sherlock," she said as she opened the door.

There he was in some makeshift office, computers had been set up. A small satellite dish was set on a chair near the one of the windows. Sherlock stood near the desk with someone's mobile to his mouth. "Trace this back and come immediately, my life and Donovan's are in imminent danger. Sally watch out!"

Someone grabbed her from behind and yanked her out into the hall. There was no mercy to the grip. She struggled but fell and her shoulder popped out of its socket as she twisted to the floor.

And then came the kicks, three to the side, one to the face. Her cheekbone crunched. Pain overwhelmed her.

 _I'm going to die! I'm going to die so he could make one last bloody phone call!_

 

* * *

 

Consciousness came again, but she wished it hadn't. How she longed to claw her way back into the darkness, the nothingness. The pain. Everything hurt. Her face, her arm, her head, her chest. Everything. Unbearable.

She heard screams but they weren't her own. Sherlock. Unmistakable. Not some act either. With enormous effort she opened her eyes and saw that once again she'd been kicked to a corner and forgotten like some unwanted rag doll.

They were still in the room where Sherlock had made the phone call. The computers had been pulled aside and shut.

Sherlock was laid out on a desk like some science project. He was stomach down, his head and shoulders dangling over one end, legs out over the other. Ropes bound his wrists tight to the stubby metal legs of the desk. From her angle she couldn't really see what their captor was doing to his legs, but it seemed as if he was attempting to make Sherlock's knees bend backwards using ropes to gradually stretch them. It was a slow and grueling process.

Sherlock had clearly reached his limit long before.

 _I need to do something,_ Sally thought. _I can't let this happen._

She stood, slowly, quietly, fading into the shadows of the gloomy room. Every step was agony for her. Her eyesight had narrowed down to a tunnel. But she was mad now. Furious. Her mind could only encompass one thought. She had to save Sherlock. Had to.

Her hand found the arm of a heavy stapler, the kind meant to pierce through fifty or more sheets of paper at once. She could only lift it one handed, because her left arm just wouldn't work, no matter how hard she willed it.

The torturer hadn't noticed. He was too busy trying to push Sherlock's ankle to the ground.

Sally lifted up the stapler up above her head and then sent it crashing down with all the might that her anger and gravity could muster. The thug grunted and flopped forward hitting the desk on his way down. Unconscious. Maybe dead. She didn't care.

"Go, Sally." It was barely more than a whisper, Sherlock's voice was so horse. "Run. You might be able to make it out of the building before the other two notice."

Sally knelt to untie one ankle. It was hard to do one handed. Impossible. She knelt further and used her teeth and the knot freed up. "I'm not leaving you."

"I can't walk. My leg is broken."

"Then we'll make our stand here." She crawled around the desk, around the pool of blood and the limp body, until she reached one of his wrists. The knot was tighter. She almost despaired, but didn't. Doggedly she worked it until it freed.

She was working on the last knot when the door burst open one more time. There was only one man this time and he hadn't bothered with the mask. They'd interrupted his break or something. Sally didn't feel remotely sorry for it.

He took one look at the bleeding body of his fallen comrade and pulled out a gun. "This ain't worth the money," he said.

Then he slumped to his knees, a bright splash of blood where one of his eyes had been just moments before. Sally looked and saw the window behind her with a neat hole in it.

"Good John," murmured Sherlock.

 

* * *

 

Things moved quickly after that, or maybe it was slowly but Sally was no longer really tracking events that well. It felt as if someone had pressed a fast forward button.

She remembered someone talking to her. A blanket wrapped around her. Then somehow she was going down the hall on a stretcher. The ceiling moving past her. An endless repeating pattern of tile and lights. Then suddenly she was in a helicopter. She wanted to turn her eyes to watch the view but for some reason she couldn't. All she could see was some man messing about with an IV.

She woke in the hospital the next day, hooked up to three different IVs with a mess of wires running out of the front of her loose hospital gown. Her pa was there in the corner looking like he'd come for a funeral. Andy wasn't. Not that she really expected him to be at her bedside. Neither was Sherlock. He'd been taken by his brother to some posh private hospital across town.

It felt oddly lonely not having him by her side.

Anderson did come later that afternoon, bringing flowers bought from the gift shop downstairs. She noted that he'd taken his wedding ring off and started to laugh. If he thought he was going to get anything from her here, in the hospital, he was madder than Sherlock.

"Are you okay. I hear that you were tied up to Sherlock for days."

"We weren't tied together. The room was very small though."

Andy frowned around his silly little beard. He looked so adorable when he made that expression. "Oh, god, I can imagine."

Sally didn't have to imagine. It all came back in bright, all sensory flashes. The cold, the pain, the fear.

But Andy was talking on. "--Being next him would have driven me mad."

And something clicked in Sally. She stared and Anderson suddenly seemed quite foreign and far away. "It wasn't that bad. He was actually quite good to me."

"I heard you two were held…" his voice lowered. "Without clothes," he finished as if it were a terribly shameful secret. Of all the injuries and indignities for him to have latched on to.

"He was a perfect gentleman," Sally said.

"Oh, I can't believe that!" said Anderson suddenly pacing the room. "He's never a gentleman. He's awful and just thinking of him leering at you –"

"He never leered," she said. "You're jealous."

"I'm not."

"You damn well shouldn't be. We were _tortured_. And you are getting worked up over Sherlock Holmes seeing my naughty parts. I'll have you know, those parts aren't exclusively yours."

"They aren't?"

"Not anymore than yours are mine." Oh, god, Sally thought. Sherlock was right. Andy was _rubbish_. Tears sprang up in her eyes and fury warred hurt. God, this was just too much.

Anderson had gone on to rant about how Sherlock claiming to save her when in fact she was the one to take down two of their captors. He tried to build her outrage at the fact, but Sally found that she didn't much feel like the credit. Sure she'd done her part, but if Sherlock hadn't been there, guiding her, helping her, supporting her, she would have fallen apart. It was Sherlock's call that brought in the cavalry.

"Just stop," she said, raising her hand. "Stop. I'm done."

"Done with what."

"Done with bashing Sherlock."

"He's a freak, Sally!" said Anderson shrilly. "Don't tell me you are taking his side against mine. Did they _brainwash_ you or something?"

Sally wavered. "I don't even know, but I'm tired, Andy. Bone tired. And I'm done fighting your fight against Sherlock. Deal with him yourself. I'm calling truce."

Anderson sputtered then left. Sally wondered if that meant they'd broken up. She wondered if she really cared.

Then she reached over and pressed the morphine button until the machine had given her as much as it was going to. The room grew fuzzy and warm and distant and she let everything slide away.


End file.
